Friday, November 24, 2006

But that pain appears to be subsiding. After some swell shows in Calgary, a quite rip-roaring little romp in the far-away hamlet of Vermilion and a cozy arrival amongst family in Coaldale, Alberta, I came down with one of the most vile sore throats in recent history. From Sunday to Tuesday I was wincing with every gag of saliva while an infected tonsil raged without pity. Tuesday night I did my show in Lethbridge and, to my amazement, was able to forget the pain and just plow through a respectable amount of jokes and asides. Once it was over I was deeply relieved, even as I felt the pain returning to pick up where it left off (nice of it to wait 'til I was "off the clock").

I'm on my fourth day of antibiotics now and am feeling much better. I hosted a show here in Calgary last night and the pain is almost gone. Cheerios are no longer a gauntlet of jagged throwing stars and chocolate milk flows free and easy without the narrow passage through golf-ball glands.

Much thanks to Aunt Debby and Uncle Frank to providing much warmth and support and soup, enabling this welcome recovery.

Tonight I go to celebrate my rejuvenation in a town whose very name smacks of rebirth and fresh beginnings.

Monday, November 13, 2006

WESTWARD BOUND

Here is a rough schedule of where I'll be over the next month or so. My apologies for the vagueness of some of the gigs in the smaller towns as far as specific information. I think in many cases the town is small enough that interested parties can just follow the laughs.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

FROM FLAILING HANDS WE THROW THE TORCH…

Remembrance Day has arrived and I never bought a poppy. That’s the first time that’s happened in years. I had the chance about two weeks ago in a bank, but didn’t have any loose change, and I figured I’d get one later, but I honestly don’t think I saw them anywhere else. I suppose I could have sought one out. But I didn’t, so alas I am without pinnage.

Not long ago I probably would have felt much more guilty about this. I would have worried I was inherently bad for not visibly honoring the veterans, or at the very least I would fear being judged as such by the stern looks of poppy-festooned peers and elders. But I don’t want to feel guilty about it, and if I’m given any such stern looks, well, I don’t think I really care anymore, as I seem to be reaching an age where I’m recognizing that 99% of judgmental people should really focus on tidying up their own backyards. As for inherent goodness or badness, I’ve got to lean towards a “good” verdict. I’m thinking of a specific example why.

A month ago in Toronto I was waiting for a lift at the entrance of a subway station. There were two kids standing outside the doorway, a little girl of about six years old and a boy of maybe eleven or twelve. They were selling apples. I watched as commuters walked past them. The little girl would give an adorable toothless smile and squeak out something inaudible to the people closest to her. The boy, a lurching, gangly figure with pom-pom bouncing haphazardly off the top of his head would let loose a shrill plea to “Support scouting!” that carried with it the self-assured persuasiveness of your cheaper brand of rape whistle. It didn’t take long to see that, in terms of sales, the sweet little girl was cleaning up, while the boy was met with nervous shrugs and downward glances.

What else could I do?

I wandered up to the boy and, before he could strafe me with one of his blood-letting pitches, I asked him what he was raising money for and how much it cost to buy an apple. Stammering through a memorized shpeel, he informed me that they were raising money for boy scouts and girl scouts and that you paid what you wanted. So I gave a loonie and thanked him for the apple and left him to mentally regroup. There was a lady whom I assumed was watching over the little troopers in a supervisory capacity, and she gave me a grateful smile.

And that, as much as any reason, is why I don’t feel so bad that I didn’t buy a poppy. The old warhorses will have no trouble raising awareness and money for their cause. Those guys have the uniform, the dignity, the sheer prestige of fighting in the most momentous struggle for freedom in the history of the world. With a promotional triple-threat like that you know the product’s going to sell itself. Give me the nervous, unkempt little scamp whose propensity for negotiating begins and ends with squeezing his parents for an extra half hour of tv before bed. In a dog eat dog world, that’s where I’m throwing my biscuit.

I'd like to salute all the youngsters who, faced with unyielding authority, have taken their marching orders and fought in the trenches of social awkwardness and uncomfortable produce transactions. They’re not the bravest little soldiers, but they’ve got the scars to warrant a little remembrance, too.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

BOMB’S ECHO

In recent weeks more and more Canadian soldiers have died in Afghanistan. The reports have been troubling, not just for the obvious tragic reasons, but because of a personal experience a while back. About a year ago I and two other comics performed for the troops at a Canadian base which I have heard referenced a couple of times on the recent reports. I remember distinctly that many of the guys in attendance (maybe most of them?) were going to Afghanistan soon.

I haven’t done any research into the names of the fallen soldiers, so I don’t have any hard facts here, but I think it’s safe to say that at least some of these young men were sitting in the audience that night. Certainly it didn’t cross my mind looking out from the stage that some of the faces looking back might not be around a year later. No, I was pre-occupied with other things.

Namely a strong desire to get off the stage. Because that show sucked.

Seriously, I usually have two or three shows in a year that stick with me as crappy experiences, much as I’d rather forget them, and this gig definitely made the list. The boys were rowdy, drunk, rude and obnoxious. Technically I probably had worse bombs that year, in the sense of less laughter. Actually, on this night, I got a few good laughs, even a couple of applause breaks. And the audience weren’t all horrible. Many people were attentive and appreciative (I think some spouses were present) and one of the officers told some rowdies to pipe down, which was considerate. But it still left a crap taste in my mouth. The ebb and flow of their attention and the dick-head remarks forced me to plow through most of my stuff, searching for the bits with a punchline blunt enough to register with their boozed-up grey matter. It was actually a relief when a large faction wandered outside to smoke, restoring a level of calm to the proceedings. The other acts didn’t have much fun either. As we left, some of the troops were talking about how the only good one was the host who made fun of them in the first ten minutes, not even pretending not to notice us walking past them. They were the sort of people you encounter that you have to dismiss as a bunch of assholes who, God willing, will never cross paths with you again. The sooner you forget about them the better.

Except, months later, the evening news wouldn’t let me forget about them, or the fact that many of them will absolutely never cross paths with me again.

It gave me mixed feelings thinking about the dead soldiers. Part of me felt guilty, imagining that that comedy night may have been the last live entertainment some kid saw, and it was a disappointment. It smacked of a wasted opportunity to give some comfort and levity to people who would not feel either ever again. Part of me got a little mad remembering the hell-gig, prompting me to wonder, “Why are we sending drunken hooligans to defend freedom and democracy when by all rights they should be wearing togas and funneling Moosehead?” Then I’d reflect on the complexity of human beings and the measure of a man’s worth: “How do insufferable jerks turn out to be courageous heroes? Did I miss something? If I did, what does that say about me? How good is a comic who fails his country’s bravest sons?”

In short, the experience resonated more than most bombs.

A couple of months ago I met another soldier. It was during one of the Emo Phillips shows I hosted in Ottawa. I was working the crowd, doing the “any birthdays?” thing, and, as usual someone drew attention to a reluctant celebrant. I asked him, “What do you do?” He said he was a soldier, and just got back from Afghanistan. This was met with supportive applause from the audience, followed by my defeated remark, “Fuck. How do I make fun of that?”, which was met with some welcome mirth and giggles.

Turns out this guy was wounded overseas. After the show (it was a very good one) he approached me, and I saw that the side of his face was badly bruised. We chatted a bit, and he had his picture taken with me (I assume, if it’s still in his digital files, it’s labeled something grand like “Me and someone not Emo Phillips”). Then he thanked me and went on his way.

I’m assuming he was pleased with the show, and that it contributed to a birthday he was no doubt extra happy to be celebrating. I was glad that he caught me on a good night. Some guys are just lucky, I guess.

Meeting him reminded me of my lousy military skirmish a year prior, and it helped ease the sting of that memory. Actually, I don’t really worry about that other gig at all anymore. I’ve done some great shows since then. Perspective shifts. Time heals. Which is one of the good things about my business. In comedy, a bomb only FEELS like the end of the world. But there’s always another chance to do better.

We may as well be happy about that. ‘Cause a lot of people aren’t so lucky.